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“We’re attending witches at Henbane Coven,” I say.

“Do you regularly use this pathway?”

“She doesn’t,” Sybil says, gesturing to me. “I’ve been running this trail weekly for the past year.”

“Do either of you know of anyone else who regularly comes this way?” the officer asks, looking between us.

My eyes move over the crowd of officers and other uniformed personnel as that sick, uneasy feeling worms its way beneath my skin. The cluster of officers parts, and I catch sight of—of—

My mind can’t—won’t—make sense of what my eyes are seeing. The colors are crimson and pink and beige and black, so much oily black—

The officer steps in front of me, shifting to block my view.

I put a hand to my mouth to fight my rising nausea.

Sybil glances from me to the crime scene to the officer. “What’s going on? Has something happened?”

“We’re not at liberty to discuss an open investigation,” she says smoothly.

But I don’t need magic or intuition to know what’s going on. I saw it with my own eyes.

Save us, Goddess.

There’s been another murder.

CHAPTER18

The news breaks laterthat day.

Another killing. Another witch gone too soon.

I try to focus during Intro to Magic, but all I can see is that shape on the ground, the one my mind couldn’t make sense of then—the one itstillcan’t make sense of. And then there was the oily, terror-steeped magic that clung to the crime scene like awful perfume.

Dark magic.Truedark magic. The kind people sell their souls for.

It has me shivering even now.

The Politia hasn’t released much information about the killing, but it was obvious enough from what I saw that the attack happened sometime between yesterday evening and this morning.

Right after Memnon visited me.

I go cold all over.

Could he, in his anger, have attacked another witch? Could he have murdered her?

I remember the violence of Memnon’s power and presence.

Yes, he could have.Easily, he could’ve.

I draw in a shuddering breath, forcing the thoughts away before I spiral. I refocus on Professor Huang at the head of the lecture hall. They have pin-straight black hair that hangs all the way down to their thighs, and when they move, it swings like a curtain.

“As witches, we all draw magic from the world around us,” they say, making their way to the side of the stage, where a table rests. On it sit a dozen different items.

“However,” they continue, “every single one of you has a unique way of interacting with magic, and as you grow in your abilities, you’ll learn how to sculpt your power to fit your use.”

They move their hand over the items, touching them one by one. “I’ve set out several items, each one symbolic of a certain form of magic.”

I focus on the items in question. From where I sit, I can make out a potted plant, a loaf of bread, a locket, a dried bundle of herbs, a bowl of water, a crystal, a conch shell, a clay pot, a river rock, a bowl of soil, an unlit candle, a page of writing, and a vial of what looks like gray dust.